Ella's
When a hostess announces that the wait for a table is some number greater than 20 minutes, nine times out of ten I politely say thank you, turn to head out the door, and start mentally running through the list of dining alternatives in close proximity. It’s not that I mind waiting the specified 20-some minutes. What deters me is the possibility of eating the bitter regret that comes when the 20-some minutes quickly turns into 30 and still no open table is in sight. “Why didn’t I listen to my gut and leave earlier?” This first drop of a thought inevitably bursts into a torrential downpour of self doubt and indecision: “Should I wait just a few more minutes or leave now? What if my name is called as soon as I walk out the door? But if I go much longer without food, I may not have the strength to chew.”
Weekend brunch, however, has always been immune to this potentially sorry state of affairs--at least in my book. A model meal that encourages peaceful societal gatherings, brunch is the equal opportunity joining of breakfast and lunch foods, accepting and tolerant of any lifestyle or sleepstyle, amenable to barely sober late-night revelers of the previous evening, families with little ones in tow, or those who sleep through their alarms and, were it not for brunch, might otherwise have missed out on scrumptious breakfast fare.
The latter was our case this past Saturday morning, as Jenny and I quickly and carefully drove up and down the steep hills of Dolores Street en route to meet our friend Joe at Ella’s, a popular brunch spot just south of the Presidio. Between shifts from higher to lower gears and vice versa, I surveyed my internal state of affairs--was I in the mood for something sweet or savory? Pancakes? Eggs? Something off the beaten brunch path?
My mind was still turning over the possibilities when we arrived at our destination, unremarkable in appearance, save the huddles of three and four outside the tinted door. I could make out a dense pack of people standing right inside the entrance. There was definitely a wait, but it didn't concern me in the slightest.
Ever since my first brunch experience in New York City many moons ago, the word “brunch” conjures up feelings of excitement and anticipation, of Christmas parties and summer vacations, times and places outside the ordinary flow of life, where norms are ignored and subverted. The mundane rhythm of the workweek suspends, the daily three-meal pattern cadences into two.
Menus are even beefed up for this special weekend affair, and whether it’s the family with crying babies or the squealing gaggles of girls debunking their dates from the night before, a pervasive sense of festive casualness lends itself to informal behavior, the freedom of the weekend allowing for that extra cup of coffee ... or two. Brunch is, in essence, a holiday in a meal.
And a much needed one for Jenny and me, following a week of busy days spent unpacking and plodding up and down the stairs from our apartment to the garage, our arms full of collapsed boxes, bubble tape, and refuse bags destined for the the garbage and recycling bins.
Though I was prepared to wait the projected half hour or longer, we were seated relatively quickly. To my delight, portions were big, flavors were tasty, and prices very reasonable. The springy give of the curried cauliflower in response to my first chomp into my potato scramble felt, tasted, and sounded fresh. The melted cheddar cheese over Jenny’s silky fried cornmeal sang in my mouth, enticing me to take a second forkful. A chorus of tastes and sounds provided the accompaniment to the solo lines of our voices as we highlighted the milestones of over half a decade worth of happenings--since our college graduation, the last time I had seen Joe.
Every so often I would look over at my neighbors, also smiling, ooh-ing over their pancakes piled high and slathered in syrup. While still listening to Jenny and Joe discuss the intricacies of job hunting in San Francisco, I took in the rising and falling of patrons as they sat to eat or stood to leave, the acrobatics of servers and waiters with dishes in both hands maneuvering through the maze of tables, chairs, and shifting bodies. It occurred to me that under normal circumstances I would be looking at my watch, wondering if I should get up and leave, to make room for the next customer standing at the doorway. But I let these rather ordinary thoughts go, returning to Jenny and Joe. This was brunch, after all, and I was on my holiday.
Potato scramble with curried cauliflower, shitakes, grilled red onion, cilantro, gouda, and egg. Honey oat raisin toast.
Fried cornmeal with cheddar and green onions. Eggs sunnyside up and biscuit.
